


High Stakes

by fengirl88



Series: Busted Flush [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Authority Figures, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Drugs bust, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“All your hiding-places,” Lestrade says.  “Every last one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Stakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crocodile_eat_u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/gifts).



> Final part of the Busted Flush trilogy, and makes more sense if you've read [Busted Flush](http://archiveofourown.org/works/142605) and [Playing Patience](http://archiveofourown.org/works/150935) first.
> 
> Single line extra for April's mini-challenge at kink_bingo, using the diagonal line "authority figures; danger; bondage (wrist/ankle restraints)" from the [Hands Up: The Lawman Gift Basket](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/406055.html?thread=3285287#cmt3285287).
> 
> This is a late birthday present for crocodile_eat_u: happy birthday croc!

A fortnight after that teasing goodnight kiss from Lestrade and Sherlock is going crazy with frustration. He'd sent one desperate text, five days after the case had wrapped and Lestrade had left him hanging: _Coming round then? SH_. Trying to act casual again, and again fooling nobody, least of all Lestrade, who'd replied _Not tonight, Josephine. GL_.

God preserve him from a DI with a grudge five years in the making and a warped sense of humour. Should have known better than to take him out for dinner on April Fool's Day – though, Sherlock thinks, wincing at the memory, it was Lestrade who'd ended up paying for dinner at Angelo's.

Sherlock's been paying for it ever since, night after night. The pattern's set by now: he falls into an uneasy half-sleep and then rockets out of it, thinking there's someone in the room, his heart pounding. The buzz of adrenalin gets him so cranked up that he'll lie awake for another hour or more, sweating, fighting the urge to masturbate and eventually giving in. He imagines Lestrade walking in on him like this, and the thought of it makes him hot and cold all over with shame, but he can't stop. He falls asleep afterwards, still straining to catch the sounds he knows aren't really there – a creak on the stairs, a fumble at the lock. 

John's taken to spending more and more nights round at Sarah's, or possibly Clara's or even Harry's. Sherlock doesn't know, doesn't care. He catches John's expression sometimes and it's – _reproachful_ is the nearest Sherlock can get to it, though he's not sure that's quite it.

 _Flatmates should know the worst about each other_ , he'd said to John. Never claimed he'd be easy to live with, did he? 

Lestrade's an idiot, thinking Sherlock was interested in John like that. Not his type at all. Not that he'd ever thought he _had_ a type. But he'd enjoyed his games with Lestrade, enjoyed Lestrade's desperation.

_Not so much fun the other way round, is it?_

It could be. If Lestrade would only turn up. Sherlock wouldn't mind being desperate _with_ Lestrade. Desperate because of what Lestrade was doing to him. Thinking about that makes him groan.

Desperate because Lestrade's not there... that's a humiliation he wasn't expecting and doesn't know how to handle. Humiliation's not something he ever thought he wanted – why would you? – but ever since the drugs bust...

That _was_ a noise, wasn't it?

Sherlock sits bolt upright in bed, shivering with anticipation. He doesn't know whether to grab some clothes or let Lestrade find him naked.

If it is Lestrade. Might be somebody else. Disappointed client, vengeful master criminal, John back from Sarah's after a row, Mrs Hudson sleepwalking...

Sherlock puts on his blue dressing-gown and moves quietly to the bedroom door, pulls it open and –

“Lestrade.” His voice croaks with disbelief. For all the times he's been so sure it would happen, he'd obviously convinced himself it couldn't be true.

And here he is. Off-duty, clearly: the DI's best suit left hanging in the wardrobe or tumbled on a chair by the bed, why is he thinking about that now, _focus, Sherlock_. Lestrade, wearing a white t-shirt, once-dark jeans now faded and worn at the knees and the crotch, black leather jacket...

If Sherlock had had to pick out the costume that would get him hard the fastest, that's the one he'd have chosen. How does Lestrade _know_?

 _Because it's a cliché_ , his mind jeers. Think yourself lucky he didn't wear the leather trousers to go with the jacket. You'd have been coming before he'd even laid a finger on you.

Not a helpful train of thought. He looks at Lestrade's fingers, thicker than his own, nicely shaped, the nails clipped and filed short... 

Lestrade catches him looking and grins. Sherlock swallows hard.

“Don't think you've got much hidden under there,” Lestrade says, gesturing dismissively at Sherlock's dressing-gown. “But we'd better make sure.”

He doesn't move, though Sherlock waits for what feels an impossibly long time.

“Well, come on,” Lestrade says, impatient and slightly contemptuous. “We haven't got all night.”

“No,” Sherlock says, attempting nonchalance, “it's 2.30 in the morning.”

“Funny,” Lestrade says, not smiling. “Going to take that off, are you? Or have you decided to refuse cooperation?”

“What if I have?” Sherlock asks. The blood's pounding in his ears and he can hardly hear himself think.

“It gets rough,” Lestrade says matter-of-factly. “Not sure you're up to that, nicely brought up lad like you.”

“Lad?” Sherlock jeers. He can't resist it.

“Something wrong with my vocabulary?” Lestrade asks, very quietly. He digs into one of his pockets and then the other, producing a pair of handcuffs and a pair of gloves.

“Hope you're not allergic to latex,” he says, “though frankly I couldn't give a toss either way.”

Sherlock's mouth is dry and his hands fumble stupidly, uselessly with the knot of his dressing-gown sash. If anything the bloody thing seems to be getting even tighter.

“Christ, you're making a mess of that,” Lestrade says in a tone of weary disgust. “Can't even get undressed by yourself. Did your fag squeeze your toothpaste for you as well?”

“I didn't have a fag,” Sherlock says, stung. “I had a tutor.”

“Home-educated,” Lestrade says, groaning. “Might've known. Nanny undress you, did she?”

“Shut up!”

There's a silence: they look at each other as if something might be about to break, though Sherlock isn't sure what.

“ _What_ did you say?” The crack of Lestrade's voice flicks him like a whip. Sherlock's head jerks.

“I said 'Shut up',” he says. “I – apologize.”

“Three times in a fortnight,” Lestrade says. “Having Christmas in April now, are they?”

 _You made that joke before_ , Sherlock thinks rebelliously, but he doesn't say it.

“Downstairs,” Lestrade says. “ _Now_.”

Sherlock stumbles ahead of him, knees buckling with a mixture of fear and excitement. He hears the clatter as Lestrade throws the handcuffs down on the coffee-table, and turns to see him drop the gloves on top of them. Lestrade moves over to the fireplace and pulls out the jack-knife skewering the unpaid bills in place. He runs his thumb along the flat of the blade, and Sherlock tries not to make a noise, though there's something perilously close to a moan that wants to come out.

Lestrade looks from the knife to Sherlock. He raises his eyebrows.

“Like a bit of knifeplay, do you?”

Sherlock can't speak. He shakes his head.

“Hmm,” Lestrade says, sounding unconvinced.

He takes hold of the knotted dressing-gown sash and brings the knife down through the knot, parting the silk. Sherlock gasps. 

Lestrade grins at him, a grin that makes him think of red marks on white skin, makes his skin feel suddenly too tight all over. Sherlock feels clumsy and exposed, helpless, though he knows, or thinks he knows, that he could stop this if he really wanted to. Lestrade's come alone, and if Sherlock decided to put up a fight they're pretty evenly matched. But there's no fight in him. Or rather, all the fight that's left in him is going on resisting the impulse to drop to his knees.

Lestrade looks him up and down, as if Sherlock's exposed body is something faintly ridiculous or possibly disgusting.

“Well, well,” he says. “You really do get off on this, don't you?”

“I should have thought that was obvious,” Sherlock says, before he can stop himself. Because it _is_ , and this is absurd, the whole thing is just –

“Don't make me have to repeat myself,” Lestrade says flatly. He looks at the knife, and then at Sherlock's erection. Waits.

Sherlock's throat is dry, so dry, it would be good to have a drink of water just now but he doesn't dare to ask.

“Yes,” he says after a long pause.

“Yes what?” Lestrade says.

“Yes, I really do get off on this,” Sherlock says, and saying it is somehow the worst thing that's happened so far.

“Good boy,” Lestrade says, a contempt in his voice that's like a caress.

Sherlock shudders.

“Going to cooperate, then, are we?” Lestrade taunts him.

Sherlock bites back the retort about what _we_ are going to do. “Yes,” he says, looking at the floor.

Lestrade puts the point of the jack-knife under Sherlock's chin and says “Look at me when I'm talking to you.” He presses the knife against Sherlock's flesh, very slightly.

Sherlock raises his head and looks into Lestrade's eyes. He can't read what's written there.

“Good boy,” Lestrade says softly again. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?” Sherlock asks.

“All your hiding-places,” Lestrade says. “Every last one. Open them up. Come on, don't keep me waiting.”

Hands shaking, heart pounding, Sherlock goes through the ritual: the skull, the violin case, the toe of a pair of _babouches_ , chapter 6 of Taylor's _Medical Jurisprudence_ , the back of the mirror over the fireplace. He glances at the Union Jack cushion – was that where...?

Lestrade picks up the cushion and presses the point of the knife into the middle of the red cross.

“There's a zip at the back,” Sherlock croaks.

Lestrade raises his eyebrows again, and for a moment Sherlock thinks the scene will collapse. He's not sure why he goes on thinking of it like that when the handcuffs and gloves are real and so is the knife, god, the _knife_... He can still feel the itchy awareness of the point where Lestrade pressed it into his skin.

“Mrs Hudson's cushion, is it?” Lestrade says sardonically. “Considerate. Nanny would be proud of you. Or maybe not.”

He holds the cushion out to Sherlock.

Sherlock nearly drops it, unzips the cover and pulls out the plain white cushion inside. He hands the bundle back to Lestrade and watches the knife slice through unbleached cotton, watches soft clouds of white padding fall to the floor from the split fabric. Feels a drop of sweat run tickling down from his hairline.

“You really thought there was something there, didn't you?” Lestrade says mockingly.

“Yes,” he says. He can't say anything else, and he's not sure Lestrade wants him to.

“Is that the lot?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Go on then.”

The underside of the desk drawer, the egg-box in the fridge, the window-frame, the inside pocket of an old coat hanging in the hall, the paperweight from Nanny's yearly holiday to Brighton, his pencil-case from that brief disastrous term at school...

The silence in the room stretches out, no sound but his own blood pounding in his ears, the rasp of his own breathing. Lestrade can't possibly be as calm as he seems, can he? But his face shows nothing.

“Finished?” Lestrade says at last.

Sherlock nods, then says “Yes, finished.”

“Body search then,” Lestrade says, shutting up the knife and dropping it into his pocket. “You sure you want this?”

Oh come _on_ , Sherlock thinks, but he doesn't say it. What else does Lestrade think is supposed to happen now?

But maybe it's a cue, a cue he's missing.

“I don't have a choice, do I?” he says, carefully.

Lestrade smiles. Sherlock feels that smile in the tightening of his gut, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“No,” Lestrade says, “you don't. After all, you invited me here.”

He takes his phone out of his jacket, shows Sherlock his own text on the screen: _Coming round then? SH_

“Asking for it,” Lestrade says, “weren't you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I was.” He's still hard, shamefully so. 

“Any normal man would be wilting right now,” Lestrade says, “but not you, eh? Look at you, you're bursting for it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. He doesn't know what else to say, but maybe – “Please,” he adds.

“Please what?”

“Please tell me what you want me to do,” Sherlock mutters, his throat so dry he can hardly swallow.

“Water,” Lestrade says, as if he's reading Sherlock's mind. “Get yourself some.”

Sherlock fumbles with the glass and turns the tap on too hard. Water spurts everywhere, splotching and staining the blue silk.

“Clumsy,” Lestrade says lightly. “Drink.”

Sherlock drinks gratefully, too fast, splutters and chokes.

“Enough,” Lestrade says. “Put the glass down.”

He picks up the handcuffs and lets them dangle from one finger, watches Sherlock watching the metal swing to and fro.

“Please,” Sherlock says. He has no idea what he's asking for, but it's the only word he can think of.

“Too late for that,” Lestrade says. “You know it is.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, staring at the movement of the handcuffs. There's nothing else in the universe but this, himself and Lestrade standing in the kitchen of 221b in the small hours, watching the glint of the handcuffs as they sway and catch the light.

“Hands,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock holds them out to him.

The cuffs feel cold. Heavy. Intimate and impersonal at the same time, and he can't, it's all been a mistake, he wants to say _stop it_ and the words won't come.

Lestrade's so close he can smell him, coffee and leather and – is that tobacco?

“Just the one,” Lestrade says wryly. “On your doorstep.”

The thought of Lestrade out there, smoking, waiting to come in and do this to him, makes him moan. Lestrade laughs and leans in close as if for a kiss, pulling back when Sherlock opens his mouth in anticipation.

“Are you always this easy?” 

Apparently this doesn't require an answer, which is just as well. Lestrade moves out of sight, back into the sitting-room, and Sherlock hears the snap of the gloves. His cock twitches.

“Sit,” Lestrade says, pulling out a kitchen chair.

Sherlock doesn't move, caught off balance by the surprise of the order.

“Now,” Lestrade says, an edge in his voice. Sherlock's knees give way and he sits down, hard.

Lestrade shines a torch in his eyes, his ears; probes his mouth. At the feeling of those thick gloved fingers Sherlock has to fight to keep still when everything in him wants to struggle, wants to _bite_ –

“You do, you'll wish you'd never been born,” Lestrade says. His voice is rougher now, like someone playing Bad Cop. It's messing with Sherlock's head, not knowing how much of this is acting, how much of it real.

Lestrade slides a tongue depresser into Sherlock's mouth, presses down till Sherlock wants to gag, needs to swallow, he can't do this, he _can't_ –

and then the flat stick and the gloved fingers are gone, and he gasps for breath, shaking. ( _Still hard, how can he possibly still be hard after that?_ )

Sherlock looks down at the stretched fabric of Lestrade's jeans, the tell-tale line that says Sherlock isn't the only one affected here. He reaches out his cuffed hands to touch, to stroke, not sure what he thinks he's doing any more –

The slap is light but stinging, instantly sobering. Sherlock gasps in spite of himself.

“Don't start,” Lestrade says, and it seems to mean more than the phrase usually does.

He's not to initiate anything then. Is to wait for orders. He bends his head, uncertain what to do.

Lestrade unclasps the cuff from one wrist and pulls Sherlock's hands round behind his back.

“Can't trust you, can I?”

“No,” Sherlock says, obedient.

Lestrade tugs at his hair and pulls him down till Sherlock's face is pressing against the bulge in Lestrade's trousers. Sherlock's mouth is watering, he's never done it like this before but he wants, he _wants_ , even with his hands behind his back and his muscles protesting. He licks a wet patch onto the soft worn denim, breathes hard on it. Trying to seduce Lestrade, or to placate him, he's not sure which.

“Bloody amateurs.” Lestrade pushes him away, nearly making Sherlock lose his balance. 

_What, you usually go with pros?_ No, better not say that. 

“I could fuck your mouth, I suppose, but it's really not worth the trouble,” Lestrade says, sounding bored. “You'd probably make a mess of that as well.”

Sherlock shudders.

“Let's get this over with,” Lestrade says. He pulls the dressing-gown off Sherlock's shoulders and back down as far as it will go. “Stand up and bend over.”

Sherlock gets up clumsily, bends over the kitchen table.

“Stay there and don't move,” Lestrade says. “You'd better hope your flatmate has supplies, or it's going to be spit, and that won't be pretty.”

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock says hoarsely.

Lestrade laughs. “Not going to ask how you know that,” he says. “Spare your blushes, or Watson's maybe.”

Sherlock listens to the footsteps going up the stairs to John's room, crossing the floor, pausing, _oh god what if John's taken it with him_ , and coming back again.

“Not much left but it'll have to do,” Lestrade says. “You can buy him some more in the morning, assuming you can walk as far as the chemist's.”

He's doing it on purpose, Sherlock thinks, one fucking cliché after another, daring him to react. Or maybe this is the way he always plays this scene. If he plays it with anyone else–

“ _Focus_ ,” Lestrade says, with a hard slap to the back of Sherlock's thighs. “I can hear you thinking, and it's annoying.”

He pushes his gloved hands between Sherlock's legs and pulls Sherlock's thighs wider apart. Sherlock tries to brace himself, though his legs are already shaking.

“Head down, arse up,” Lestrade says. He cups Sherlock's balls in one hand and squeezes till Sherlock yelps.

“Really?” Lestrade says. “Thought you were tougher than that.”

He takes his hand away and brings it back again, applying lubricant to Sherlock's anus. Sherlock squirms at the touch, cold against his burning skin, slippery where he's so tight but Lestrade is pushing into him, slick gloved fingers probing, opening him, and it burns, the stretch and the shame of it both at once. Lestrade's breathing harder now, the pretence of impersonality cracking at last, and Sherlock pushes back, groaning, wanting more, wanting –

“Hold still, can't you?” Lestrade growls. 

Lestrade twists his fingers and Sherlock gives a sharp cry, it's too much and not enough. Lestrade pulls his fingers out again, adds another chilly squirt of lube and pushes back in, three fingers this time, scissoring and twisting till Sherlock sees stars. 

Sherlock feels as if he's impaled, as if Lestrade's fingers are the only things stopping him from falling to the floor. He's making noises he doesn't even recognize, can hardly believe are his own, animal sounds and a babble of words, begging Lestrade to fuck him, to take him, to use him.

“Oh Christ,” Lestrade says. “Fuck's sake, Sherlock, hold still or I'm going to do you a mischief–”

Sherlock bites his lip to keep from crying out again as Lestrade pulls out. He feels Lestrade's hands fumbling at the cuffs, undoing one wrist, and then his hands are pulled up over his head as Lestrade locks the dangling cuff to the leg of the table.

“Not going to – break your arms,” Lestrade grits out. “ _Bloody_ civilians, no fucking sense of health and safety–”

Sherlock nearly laughs but he thinks he might not be able to stop if he starts. Or he might start crying and that wouldn't do at all. He pushes his half-numbed free arm against his mouth and bites down, hard.

There's the sound of a zip being pulled down, rustle of clothing, rip of a condom packet – “You needn't think this is for your benefit, you self-centred prick,” Lestrade mutters – and then the heat of Lestrade's skin against his own, shocking, intimate, and it's only now that Sherlock realizes how cold he is, bent over half-naked, utterly exposed in every possible way –

But he can't think of that, can't think of anything except the blunt impossible splitting push of Lestrade's cock into him, the heat of Lestrade's thighs against his as he buries himself to the root in Sherlock.

Sherlock tries to grab on to the table, to brace himself as he pushes back to meet Lestrade's thrust. But his fingers won't grip properly and he slips forward, nearly losing his footing as Lestrade drives into him again and again. Lestrade's fingers grasp his hips, bruisingly tight, steadying him, and Sherlock cries out, in relief as much as anything else, letting go entirely. Giving up the last rags of control, till he's nothing but this body being fucked and taken apart and driven to the edge, muscles straining, clenching, shuddering at Lestrade's command. Battered by the rain of words – _take it, that's right, fuck, always this, you always wanted this, didn't you, all of it, fuck you so hard, so hard you won't sit down for a week, fuck the contrariness right out of you, come on, do it, give it to me now_.

It's almost enough, but not quite, and Sherlock moans, he can't say what he needs but he's still hanging, doesn't know if that's what Lestrade intends and he can't, he _can't_ –

A snap of latex and he feels Lestrade's bare hand gripping his cock, pushing between Sherlock and the table, rubbing and rubbing, so hard it's almost painful, but good, so good, and the tightness of Lestrade's hand and the feeling of skin on skin at last, and the relentless thudding push of Lestrade's hips as he drives into him and _into_ him, that, yes, that, please, oh god that –

The orgasm feels as if it's being wrenched out of him, hauled up from depths he didn't know he had. He's thrown, limp and shaking, like a castaway beached by the tide, half-stunned and gasping for breath, spots of colour dancing before his eyes.

Lestrade curses and shouts and collapses on top of him, his weight pushing Sherlock face down against the wood of the kitchen table. He's panting even worse than Sherlock and for a moment Sherlock wonders if he's actually had a heart attack, which would be seriously inconvenient –

The last thing he expects at this point is a kiss on the nape of his neck. Even one _with_ teeth in it. Sherlock groans appreciatively.

“Wanker,” Lestrade says. It doesn't sound unfriendly.

“Huh,” Sherlock says. He'd like to make a smart riposte about Lestrade being the one who was doing the wanking, actually, but he's a bit slowed down by the endorphins currently whooshing around his system. “Huh,” he says again.

Lestrade starts laughing, which feels most peculiar when Sherlock is still squashed between him and the kitchen table.

“Get off me, you great lump,” Sherlock says, trying not to laugh himself.

“Can't,” Lestrade says. “I'm worn out.”

“ _You're_ worn out?” Sherlock gives an outraged wriggle, and there's a crash as Lestrade falls on the floor. “Sorry,” Sherlock says, belatedly.

“Git,” Lestrade says, but he sounds as if he still thinks it's funny.

“Get me out of these fucking things, for god's sake,” Sherlock grumbles.

“What's the magic word?” Lestrade asks.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock says, wondering for a minute if they're starting again. But he feels the cuff being unlocked, and straightens up at last, staggering a bit.

“Christ, what a mess,” Lestrade says.

It's true that there seem to be a lot of things on the floor that weren't there at the start of the night.

“John's going to have a _fit_ ,” Sherlock says with gloomy satisfaction.

He looks at Lestrade, standing there in his t-shirt, trousers still at half-mast, and starts to laugh. 

Lestrade joins in and then stops, suddenly serious. “You OK?” he says.

“No thanks to you,” Sherlock says, and sees Lestrade flinch. No, that's not fair, is it? “Yes, I'm OK,” he says.

“What the fuck was that?” Lestrade asks. He looks a bit dazed, as if he can't quite believe it, and he's making heavy weather of tucking his t-shirt back into his jeans and doing his zip up.

“ _I_ don't know,” Sherlock says impatiently. He doesn't want to have to deal with all this messy emotional stuff now. That's not what this was supposed to be about at all. But he's known Lestrade long enough to realize he's going to have to deal with it, just the same.

“It's OK,” he says. “No harm done.”

Lestrade looks sceptical, but he doesn't argue. “OK,” he says.

“Told you it'd be more fun without Anderson,” Sherlock says, because he can't resist.

“Next time I swear you're going over my knee,” Lestrade says. “If I had the energy–”

Oh good, there _is_ going to be a next time. Maybe. If Lestrade doesn't get too freaked out by what happened. Sherlock wouldn't put it past him. Or he might lose interest, now that he's got what he wanted. What they both wanted. Didn't they?

Lestrade looks at him, assessing. Sherlock has that feeling again, of being seen through, but this time he doesn't mind it, which is strange.

“Winding yourself up now,” Lestrade says. “Me too. S'pose it's not surprising.”

“No,” Sherlock says.

“I'd best be off,” Lestrade says, picking up his jacket.

“Don't forget your handcuffs,” Sherlock says irrepressibly.

Lestrade grabs Sherlock's outstretched hand and the cuffs and pulls him close for a kiss so lewd it makes Sherlock buckle at the knees. Sherlock puts his free hand on the back of Lestrade's neck and pushes it up into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He sucks at Lestrade's tongue till they're both breathing hard again.

“Stay,” Sherlock says, when Lestrade lets go of him.

“You're not ready for that,” Lestrade says. He kisses Sherlock again, a firm closed-mouth kiss this time.

“No?” Sherlock says, though he thinks Lestrade's probably right.

“No,” Lestrade says. “But you can make me a cup of tea before I go. Always get thirsty after a drugs bust.”

“All right,” Sherlock says. He tries to sound grudging, though he's grinning from ear to ear. “I'll put the kettle on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Profound thanks to thimpressionist for beta brilliance, cheerleading and advice about the state of Lestrade's jeans, and to second_skin for encouragement and support. I'm also grateful to capt_spork and ginbitch, who read a very early Lestrade/Sherlock fic of mine that couldn't be made to work, but which influenced the writing of this one.


End file.
